The title of this disc, Solitary, refers to an aspect of a composer’s journey (for composers do tread a lonely path, in general) expressed on an instrument that itself is more solitary than most, the piano.

The Kurtág pieces (the overall title means “games”) are taken from a whole series of miniatures. There are eight books of Játékok. For many of the pieces, blink and they are gone (witness the cat-and-mouse antics of the 28-second Capriccioso luminoso) and yet they seem to encapsulate (and hint at) so much in their brief spans. Some are just puzzling (the repeated descents of The Little Squall), some amusing, while some (… Flowers Also the Stars …) seem to contain the entire macrocosm in their (in this case 29-second) microcosm. There is complete gentleness here (An Apocryphal Hymn), a peace amid all the quirkiness and, yes, downright craziness (The Girl with the Flaxen Hair—Enraged is positively hilarious). Next to this, Greenberg programs the heartbreaking A-Minor Rondo by Mozart, which he plays with tremendous poignancy and poise.

Schoenberg was not a solitary voice in the music of his time but he was certainly a leader and great pedagogue. His Suite of 1923 is one of the first purely dodecaphonic works and is a miracle of concision. Greenberg finds the dancing rhythms and internal dynamics of the various movements, putting him on equal footing with Pollini’s benchmark DG recording. Greenberg’s own Lied ohne Worte nach Rilke (2009) has a German title, according to the composer, that underlines its debt to Mendelssohn. The actual melodic material was generated by Greenberg reciting poetry into a tape recorder and then transcribing the pitches and rhythms. The result is decidedly pointillist. There is an element of both the solitary and the game here, too, gathering together the ideas of the disc. Greenberg tells a story of his own solitude of his youth in the booklet notes of how he sang on his own while throwing a tennis ball against a wall as counterpoint—games and solitude conspiring to produce creativity.

Schumann’s late Gesänge der Frühe of 1853 is little known, and deserves wider currency. Written shortly before the composer’s final breakdown, the five movements encompass desperation and hope. This is a haunting way to end a most stimulating disc. Greenberg captures the spirit of each of the movements of this set brilliantly. The hunting fanfares of the third movement seem to be heard through a veil of tears, while the quiet chords of the final piece seem to carry a superhuman burden. Remarkable music.